


Tenuous At Best

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: BAFTA fic, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-01 00:15:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt at sherlockrpf: Martin comforts Benedict after last year's TV Bafta ceremony. </p>
<p>Because let's face it, it must have been pretty upseting when practicaly everyone won (the writers and the whole team the one for best drama show and Martin his own) and Ben didn't even if without him there would be absolutely no Sherlock. I felt very sorry for him as I think that he is the person who really cares about what others think about his performance so it must have hurt twice as much :(</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tenuous At Best

**Author's Note:**

> Quick and dirty fill. Unbeta'd.

Martin was standing in a semi-hidden corner, enjoying a quiet moment with his gin and tonic, a nice respite from the endless buzz of conversation, when Benedict sidled up to him. The man could move like a fucking ninja when he wanted to, Martin hadn't seen him coming until he was standing right next to him.

They hadn't had a chance to talk, not properly, since the ceremony. Oh, they'd posed for photographs, arms slung around each other, with Steve and Mark and the rest, there'd been back-slaps, hand shakes and smiling "congratulations!" But there hadn't been time for anything more than that, and the moment they'd arrived at the party it had been one endless, self-deprecating conversation after the other. He'd been watching Ben, up until about ten minutes ago, watching his smile grow smaller and smaller as the night wore on. He could see his jaw tightening, his posture slumping, and he wasn't sure why Benedict hadn't ditched the party altogether yet.

"Enjoying the party?" Benedict asked. Martin snorted and took another sip of his drink.

"Well enough, I suppose," he replied. He looked up and caught Benedict's eye. "Not so much that I wouldn't ditch it for a better offer, though," he added, smirking. The corners of Ben's mouth twitched, and some of the tension he'd been carrying seemed to drain out of his shoulders.

“In that case," Benedict said, "maybe we could go somewhere else. After all, I haven't had a change to...congratulate you properly." He gave Martin his best leer, and fuck, Martin knew it was a put-on, that he was trying his best to act normally, but he gladly went with it, laughing outright and motioning to Benedict to lead the way.

It was probably a stupid idea, no, it was _definitely_ a stupid idea, at a party like this, with so many people and photographers around. Martin simply didn't care.

He followed Benedict through the crowded room, occasionally raising his hand or calling out to someone in greeting. They skirted the bar (Benedict snagged a bottle of champagne, and Martin rolled his eyes), and made their escape, Benedict leading the way through the back corridors of the hotel (and how the fuck did he know this place so well?) until he paused outside a presumably empty room, and fished a keycard out of his pocket. Martin rolled his eyes and followed him in, totally unsurprised when Benedict backed him up against the door and leaned down to kiss him thoroughly.

Martin went with it for a while; after all, Ben was a fucking spectacular kisser, especially when he put his mind to it, and right now he seemed determined to check if Martin really had had his tonsils out at age twelve. He simply wrapped an arm around Benedict's waist and slid the fingers of his other hand into his hair and opened up to him. He allowed Benedict to keep control of the kiss, keep it hard and fast and _deep_ , and it was good, fantastic, but Martin could feel the edge of desperation, almost apology, in it.

Finally, the need for more than quickly-snatched gasps of air became critical, and Benedict pulled back, just far enough for them to breathe against each other's mouths, close enough for their lips to touch when they spoke.

"This was probably not the smartest thing to do," Martin said, voice slightly rough. And, yeah, sneaking out of a party (and not so much "sneaking" as "fairly obviously leaving together, with a bottle of champagne to boot") with your co-star who you've been trying to hide the fact that you've been shagging for four months to have sex in the same building as said party, not the best plan. But Benedict shrugged before leaning in again, and no, that was all wrong, Ben was usually the cautious one. Martin was the one in charge of spectacularly bad ideas and near-discoveries. He almost prided himself on it.

“Congratulations,” he murmured, kissing Martin again. “You deserved it.”

His voice was absolutely sincere, but again, there was something off in it, some undercurrent of emotion he was clearly trying to suppress. Martin sighed, and tightened his arm around Benedict's waist.

“So did you,” he said quietly. He felt Benedict stiffen against him, and could tell he was going to brush it off, say something about how Rigby deserved, how he'd known it wasn't a sure thing, and nope, Benedict didn't get to get away with that, not with him. He leaned up to kiss him again, a slow, lazy one this time, more affectionate than anything else.

"Doesn't matter," Benedict said when they separated. "Rigby was excellent, he deserved to win."

"Mm, so did you," Martin told him. This time, Benedict doesn't protest, simply slumping against him, his face against Martin's neck, practically melting into him. They stand there for a while, wrapped around each other, not speaking. It was weirdly comfortable, even though Ben was six fucking feet tall and draped around him. Intimate, almost. 

After a few minutes, Benedict mumbled something against his neck. 

"What was that?"

Benedict sighed and pulled back, standing a little straighter and leaning over Martin.

"I'm a terrible human being," he said, eyes on the floor.

"Well, yes, I knew that, but why specifically?" It was weak, Martin knew it was, but it earned him a small smile and a poke to his side. 

"I'm serious," Benedict said again. "God, I'm awful. I should be happy, shouldn't I? We did really well tonight and you, god, you deserve every bit of recognition you get, and more. I should be happy for you, except that on top of being generally awful human being I'm apparently the world's worst boyfriend not to mention-"

Martin slapped his hand across Benedict's mouth.

"Jesus Christ, take a breath before you pass out." He removed the hand and pressed his lips to Benedict's. "Now, start again, minus all the 'terrible boyfriend' bullshit." Martin had never been a fan of the term boyfriend, particularly as it applied to the two of them, but - and he would staunchly deny it to his dying day - it felt rather nice to hear Benedict use it without hesitation.

"It's stupid for me to be upset," Benedict said quietly. "It's selfish and childish, but I can't fucking help it. I thought," and he pauses and blushes, Jesus, he _blushes_ , who the fuck actually does that, and his voice drops a little lower as he goes on. "I was proud of it, you know? What we did with those scripts? I don't often feel great about my performances, but I - well - I really was about this one. And it just feels like...like, maybe I'm not as good as I hoped."

And that, right there, was what still amazed Martin about Benedict. He was one of the kindest, most genuine, talented, gorgeous people Martin had ever met, in an industry full of talent, charm, and false modesty, and he appeared to have no fucking clue of it. There was nothing affected about his humility. He took pride in his work, but still cared for the opinion of others to a ridiculous degree. Martin didn't understand it. How Benedict managed to be that talented, that intelligent, and still be so fucking easy to take advantage of. He honestly believed he was, in his own words, "nothing special", accompanied by a shrug and a half-smile.

"For fuck's sake, Ben, it's _okay_ ," he said. Martin grasped the sides of Benedict's face and forced him to look at him. "Listen to me, because apparently you're a colossal idiot." And he should probably ease up on the insults, but he wanted Benedict to pay attention. "It's okay. You're allowed to be disappointed. Doesn't make you an awful human being. It just makes you a, you know, human being. So first of all, stop feeling like shit about feeling like shit."

Benedict smiled at that. 

"Secondly, you're a fucking brilliant actor, so whatever it is that you're thinking, stop."

Benedict opened his mouth to say something, but Martin kept going, not giving him a chance to speak.

"You were fantastic, you _are_ fantastic, which you'd know if you stopped doubting yourself for five minutes. You definitely deserve at least half my award," he added, grinning at him. "Absolutely no way there's my John without your Sherlock." He paused, and pretended to think about it. "Well, maybe a third of it. I do have to put up with the constant insults, you know."

Benedict rolled his eyes and snorted, but he seemed to be coming out of it, slowly, he wasn't so uptight and tense.

"Right, let's stop talking and open that fucking champagne. I'm tired of stroking your ego."

Benedict's reply was to kiss him, hard, licking into his mouth straight away, deep and dirty. The edge was gone, this kiss was all gratitude and affection and _lust_.

"Anything else you object to stroking?" Benedict mumbled, and fucking hell, Martin burst out laughing. 

"Terrible," he said. "Truly, truly awful. You're lucking your pretty, you couldn't pick anyone up for shit."

And Jesus, that was the wrong thing to say, Martin regretted it the minute he opened his mouth, because the next moment Benedict's had one arm around his waist, the other under his thigh, and his own knees bent. Benedict picked him up, right off the fucking floor and pulled him away from the wall. 

"I'm not a bloody child," Martin grumbled, but locks his legs around Benedict's waist anyway. The bed was only a few steps away, and they tumbled down onto it, thoughts of everything but each other forgotten for a while.


End file.
